I miss that girl so much, who would take shaving foam from my cheek and smear it with her finger on the bathroom mirror, writing: I love you!
To this day no one else has declared love like that. To this day no one else has loved like that. To this day no one else has claimed such space in my heart. To this day no one else has been so beautifully mad.
After the girl died I never again shaved. This isn't called fashion, this is called grief.
Those who have fallen in love with my stubbled face— none of them to this day have I been able to place in the space left by the goddess whose departure created this appearance.
However much that person stayed after leaving, not even a quarter of that has anyone else been able to remain...even while staying.
To live in love takes more than just love— it takes the love of the one we love.
When a person dies, love doesn't die, but when love dies, that's when the person truly dies.